Gail Carriger

chapter SIXTEEN

On a Bridge over the Arno and Other Romantic Misnomers

Late! Of course I’m late. You do realize, wife, I’ve been hunting all over Italy for you? You havna been exactly easy to find.”

“Well, of course you wouldn’t find me if you took that tactic. I haven’t been all over Italy. I have been stuck in Florence the entire time. I was even trapped in some horrible Roman catacombs, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me? How could that possibly have been my fault, woman?” Lord Maccon came forward and loomed over his wife, both of them having entirely forgotten about their companions, who formed a semicircle of rapt interest about them. Their voices carried far over the water and through the vacant streets of Florence—no doubt providing entertainment for many.

“You rejected me!” Even as she said it, Alexia experienced once more that glorious sense of profound relief. Although this time, thankfully, it was not coupled with the need to break down and cry. Conall had come after her! Of course, she was still mad at him.

Floote bravely interjected at this juncture. “Please, madam, lower your voice. We are not yet out of danger.”

“You sent me away!” Alexia hissed, low and fierce.

“No, I didna—that is, not really. I didna intend it that way. You should have known I didna mean it. You should have realized I needed time to recover from being an idiot.”

“Oh, really? How was I to know idiocy was only a temporary condition, especially in your case? It never has been before! Besides which, vampires were trying to kill me.”

“And they didna try to kill you here as well as back home? ’Tis a good thing I had enough sobriety left to send Channing after you.”

“Oh, I like that… Wait, what did you say? Sobriety? You mean while I’ve been running across Europe pregnant, escaping ladybugs, flying in ornithopters, landing in mud, and drinking coffee, you have been inebriated?”

“I was depressed.”

“You were depressed? You!” Alexia actually started to sputter, she was so angry. She looked up at her husband, which was always a strange experience, for she was a tall woman used to looking down on people. Lord Maccon could loom all he liked; so far as she was concerned, she was not impressed.

She poked him in the center of his chest with two fingers to punctuate her words. “You are an unfeeling”—poke—“traitorous”—poke—“mistrusting”—poke—“rude”—poke—“booby!” Every poke turned him mortal, but Lord Maccon didn’t seem to mind it in the least.

Instead he grabbed the hand that poked him and brought it to his lips. “You put it very well, my love.”

“Oh, don’t get smarmy with me, husband. I am nowhere near finished with you yet.” She started poking him with the other hand. Lord Maccon grinned hugely, probably, Alexia realized, because she had slipped up and called him “husband.”

“You kicked me out without a fair trial. Do stop kissing me. And you didn’t even consider that the child might be yours. Stop that! Oh, no, you had to leap to the worst possible assumption. You know my character. I could never betray you like that. Just because history says it is not possible doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions. There are always exceptions. Look at Lord Akeldama—he is practically an exception to everything. Why, it took only a little research in the Templar records and I figured it out. Stop kissing my neck, Conall, I mean it. Templars should have practiced more of the scholarly arts and stopped whacking about at everything willy-nilly.” She reached into her cleavage and produced the small, now-garlic-scented Roman curse tablet, which she waved at her husband. “Look right here! Evidence. But not you, oh no. You had to act first. And I was stuck running around without a pack.”

Lord Maccon managed to get a word in at this point, but only because Lady Maccon had run out of breath. “It looks like you managed to build your own pack, anyway, my dear. A parasol protectorate, perhaps one might say.”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

Lord Maccon leaned forward and, before she could resume her tirade, kissed her full on the mouth. It was one of his deep, possessive kisses. It was the kind of embrace that made Alexia feel that somewhere in there, even though her touch had stolen all the werewolf out of him, he might still want to gobble her right up. She continued poking him absently even as she curled into his embrace.

Just as swiftly as he had started, he stopped. “Ew!”

“Ew? You kiss me when I haven’t even finished yelling at you and then you say ‘ew’!” Alexia jerked out of her husband’s grasp.

Conall stopped her with a question. “Alexia, darling, have you been eating pesto recently?” He started rubbing at his nose as though it were itching. His eyes began to water.

Alexia laughed. “That’s right—werewolves are allergic to basil. You see the full force of my revenge?” She could touch him and the allergic reaction would probably stop immediately, but she stood back and watched him suffer. Funny that even as a mortal, he had reacted badly to the taste of her supper. She resigned herself to a life without pesto, and with that thought realized she was going to forgive her husband.

Eventually.

The werewolf in question approached her cautiously once more, as if he was afraid if he moved too fast she would panic and bolt. “It’s been a long time since I tasted that flavor, and I never liked it, even as a human. I’ll put up with it, though, if you really like it.”

“Will you put up with the child, too?”

He pulled her into his arms again. “If you really like it.”

“Don’t be difficult. You are going to have to like it, too, you realize.”

Nuzzling against her neck, he let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Mine,” he said happily.

Alexia was resigned to her fate. “Unfortunately, both of us are.”

“Well, that’s all right, then.”

“So you think.” She pulled away, punching him in the arm, just to make her position perfectly clear. “The fact remains that you also belong to me! And you had the temerity to behave as though you didn’t.”

Lord Maccon nodded. It was true. “I shall make it up to you.” Adding unguardedly, “What can I do?”

Alexia thought. “I want my own aethographic transmitter. One of the new ones that doesn’t require crystalline valves.”

He nodded.

“And a set of ladybugs from Monsieur Trouvé.”

“A what?”

She glared at him.

He nodded again. Meekly.

“And a new gun for Floote. A good-quality revolver or some such that shoots more than one bullet.”

“For Floote? Why?”

His wife crossed her arms.

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Alexia considered asking for a Nordenfelt but thought that might be pushing it a bit, so she downgraded. “And I want you to teach me how to shoot.”

“Now, Alexia, do you think that’s quite the best thing for a woman in your condition?”

Another glare.

He sighed. “Verra well. Anything else?”

Alexia frowned in thought. “That will do for now, but I might still come up with something.”

He tucked her in close against him once more, running his hands over her back in wide circular motions and burying his nose in her hair.

“So, what do you think, my dear, will it be a girl or a boy?”

“It will be a soul-stealer, apparently.”

“What!” The earl reared away from his wife and looked down at her suspiciously.

Channing interrupted them. “Best be getting a move on, I’m afraid.” He head was cocked to one side, as though he were still in wolf form, ears alert for signs of pursuit.

Lord Maccon turned instantly from indulgent husband to Alpha werewolf. “We’ll split up. Channing, you, Madame Lefoux, and Floote act as decoy. Madame, I’m afraid you may have to don female dress.”

“Sometimes these things are necessary.”

Alexia grinned, both at Madame Lefoux’s discomfort and the very idea someone might confuse the two of them. “I recommend padding as well,” she suggested, puffing out her chest slightly, “and a hair fall.”

The inventor gave her a dour look. “I am aware of our differences of appearance, I assure you.”

Alexia hid a grin and turned back to her husband. “You’ll send them over land?”

Lord Maccon nodded. Then he looked to the clockmaker. “Monsieur?”

“Trouvé,” interjected his wife helpfully.

The clockmaker twinkled at them both. “I shall head home, I think. Perhaps the others would care to accompany me in that general direction?”

Channing and Madame Lefoux nodded. Floote, as ever, had very little reaction to this turn of events. But Alexia thought she detected a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

Monsieur Trouvé turned back to Alexia, took her hand, and kissed the back of it gallantly. His whiskers tickled. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maccon. Most enjoyable, indeed.”

Lord Maccon looked on in shock. “You are referring to my wife, are you not?”

The Frenchman ignored him, which only endeared him further to Alexia.

“And you as well, Monsieur Trouvé. We must continue our acquaintance sometime in the not too distant future.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

Alexia turned back to her faintly sputtering husband. “And we shall go by sea?”

He nodded again.

“Good.” His wife grinned. “I will have you all to myself. I still have a lot to yell at you about.”

“And here I thought we were due for a honeymoon.”

“Does that mean quite the same thing to werewolves?”

“Very droll, wife.”

It wasn’t until much later that Lord and Lady Maccon returned to the topic of a certain infant-inconvenience. They had had to make their formal good-byes and escape out of Florence first. Morning found them secluded in the safety of an abandoned old barn of the large and drafty variety, at which point things had settled enough for them to undertake what passed, for Lord and Lady Maccon, as serious conversation.

Conall, being supernatural and mostly inured against the cold, spread his cloak gallantly upon a mound of moldy straw and lounged back upon it entirely bare and looking expectantly up at his wife.

“Very romantic, my dear,” was Alexia’s unhelpful comment.

His face fell slightly at that, but Lady Maccon was not so immune to her husband’s charms that she could resist the tempting combination of big-muscled nudity and bashful expression.

She divested herself of her overdress and skirts.

He made the most delicious huffing noise when she cast herself, swanlike, on top of him. Well, perhaps more beached-sea-mammal-like than swanlike, but it had the desirous upshot of plastering most of the length of her body against most of the length of his. It took him a moment to recover from several stone of wife suddenly settled atop him, but only a moment, for then he began a diligent quest to rid her of all her remaining layers of clothing in as little time as possible. He unlaced the back and popped open the front of her corset, and stripped off her chemise with all the consummate skill of a lady’s maid.

“Steady on there,” protested Alexia mildly, though she was flattered by his haste.

As though influenced by her comment, which she highly doubted, he suddenly switched tactics and jerked her against him tightly. Burying his face in the side of her neck, he took a deep, shuddering breath. The movement lifted her upward as his wide chest expanded. She felt almost as though she were floating.

Then he rolled her slightly off him and, incredibly gently, pulled off her bloomers and began stroking over her slightly rounded belly.

“So, a soul-stealer, is that what we’re getting?”

Alexia wriggled slightly, trying to get him back into his customary, rather more forceful handling. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but she enjoyed it when he became enthusiastically rough. “One of the Roman tablets called it a Stalker of Skins.”

He paused, glowering thoughtfully. “Na, still never heard of it. But, then, I’m na all that old.”

“It certainly has the vampires in a tizzy.”

“Following in its mother’s footsteps already, the little pup. How verra charming.” His big hands began moving optimistically in a northward direction.

“Now what are you about?” wondered his wife.

“I have some further reacquainting to do. Must evaluate size differentials,” he insisted.

“I hardly see how you could tell the difference,” pointed out his wife, “considering their oversubstantial nature to start with.”

“Oh, I believe I am more than equal to the task.”

“We all must have goals in life,” agreed his wife, a slight tremor in her voice.

“And to determine all the new particulars, I must apply all the available tools in my repertoire.” This comment apparently indicated Conall intended to switch and use his mouth rather than his hands.

Alexia, it must be admitted, was running out of both token protests and the ability to breathe regularly. And since her husband’s mouth was occupied, and even a werewolf shouldn’t talk with his mouth full, she determined that was the end of their conversation.

So it proved to be the case, for some time at least.